


you or your memory

by youaremarvelous



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: Three years after his resurrection, Jason is still trying to piece himself together again. The past is a shadow stuck to his heel. He can't escape the trauma of his death, and judging by the weird occurrences happening around him, he's starting to get the feeling someone doesn't want him to.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	you or your memory

**Author's Note:**

> hey all!
> 
> this fic is technically a re-upload, albeit, a heavily reworked one. I originally wrote this fic 5 years ago without much of a plot in mind, then wrote myself into a corner, moved onto a new fandom, and deleted it a couple years later. quarantine malaise has me looking at old projects, and this one, in particular, kept haunting me. so I've retooled the plot, rewritten it to match my current style, and here we are. 
> 
> a few things to note heading in: this is loosely a red hood lost days au. jason is around 19 but it's not hugely important.
> 
> warnings for this chapter and probably the fic at large: mentions of blood, violence, panic attacks, and one very vague mention of suicidal ideation. 
> 
> and as always, this is a work of fiction and is not an accurate representation of therapy, medical info, or anything else.
> 
> if you want to get into the vibe I had going while writing, check out [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSztJ2buU0Y) and put that sucker on loop. (but maybe watch it first because it's amazing)
> 
> I think that's it! enjoy!

_“What do you remember?”  
_ _  
_ _  
_ _Jason scowls at the woman across from him, some underground psych for hire Talia’s paid out the ass to unscramble his brain and keep quiet about it. He thunks his heel on the coffee table between them, crossing one leg over the other. “What, like, in general?”  
  
_

_The woman, Dr. Marie Shelley, her golden engraved desk plate reads, is unfazed. She steeples her fingers together and leans her elbows on her desk. “About the night you came back to life.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Look, lady, I don’t know what Talia told you, but I don’t remember shit about that night.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Miss al Ghul has told me her side of the story. I want to hear yours.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason scoffs._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Have you ever heard of repressed memories?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“I’ve heard it’s a crock of shit.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
The doctor gives him a thin smile. “It’s true that the accuracy of the recovered memories is debated among the scientific community. However, the psychological mechanisms behind them are widely accepted as fact.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Mechanisms?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Sometimes, when a memory is especially difficult, our brains will protect us by locking it away in the unconscious mind.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“So you’re saying that my memories are there, I just don’t have access to them.”_

 _  
“I’m suggesting that it’s a possibility.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason shrugs. “Fuck ‘em then. Let ‘em stay buried.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
The doctor straightens. “Unfortunately, it’s not quite that simple. Even without direct access, those memories can still affect one’s actions through subconscious influence.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason thinks back to the night he kicked a hole in his bathroom door because the electricity went out during a storm. He shifts in his seat. “So what am I supposed to do about it?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“There is a course of retrieval—” the doctor stares into his eyes—“though I warn you that uncovering those lost memories might make your recovery worse before it gets better.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason clenches his jaw. His heart pounds in his throat. “What, you think I can’t handle it?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
_ _The doctor appraises him carefully from her desk. “Close your eyes.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason rolls his eyes to the ceiling, then closes them._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Focus on the sound of my voice,” the doctor instructs. “Breathe in deeply, pull the oxygen to the bottom of your lungs.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason sucks in a long breath. The top of his head buzzes._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Now slowly release. Imagine your body is growing heavy, melting into the chair.”_  
_  
_ _  
Jason complies. He mentally transmutes his blood to lead. His limbs morph into two-ton weights, anchoring him there._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“It’s the night of your resurrection,” Dr. Shelley prompts. “You’ve just reawoken. What do you see?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Sweat prickles the back of Jason’s neck. “Nothing. It’s dark, I’m in a fucking coffin.” He opens his eyes. “This is stupid.”_

  
“ _Sink into the memory, Jason_ . _Concentrate on your breathing. In, then out_ .”  
_  
_ _  
Jason closes his eyes again and folds his arms over his chest. He draws in a tight breath, lets it eke out slowly from between his lips._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“It’s dark,” the doctor repeats, measured and soft, “what else do you notice?”_  
  
_  
Jason drops his feet to the floor. The heating cuts on and flutters through the blinds. He concentrates on the sound—the persistent clatter like raindrops on asphalt._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“It’s...raining,” he says finally._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Good,” Dr. Shelley hums. “What else?”_

 _  
Jason curls his nails into his palms. Warm, wet soil squishes between his fingers. “It—it’s hot,” he swallows, then clears his throat. “I mean...humid. I think it’s summer.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Are you in pain?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
Jason clears his throat again. The taste of embalming fluid stings the back of his tongue. “No.” His hands are wet with blood. His nails are gone, ravaged by deep splinters. “No. I don’t feel anything.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Nothing at all?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
The walls press in from all sides. Jason doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the breath for it. The heat cuts off, but a thin, metallic ringing remains. Shrill—like a child’s cry—but distorted, unearthly._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
When the doctor speaks again, her voice is closer. “Are you scared?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
The distant scream swells, ascending into a maddening crescendo that darkens his vision at the corners._ _  
_ _  
_ _  
“Jason,” the doctor repeats. Her voice is deeper now, slower, dripping into his ear canal like honey. “Are you scared?”_

  
+  
  


Jason wakes up screaming.  
  
  
He stares at the ceiling, hands grasped in the blanket, heart fluttering in his throat.  
  
  
It’s that damn nightmare again. The same one that’s been stalking his dreams for months. Jason blinks, watching as his apartment emerges from the dark. Gravestones turn to kitchen chairs, walls retract to their original position. Slowly, the smell of soil recedes. He curls into his side and covers his face with his hands, sucking in air until his lungs stretch to capacity.  
  
  
He isn't in a coffin. His apartment is a total shithole: cramped and dingy and not worth the price he pays for rent, but it isn't six feet underground. He can breathe here.

  
Jason reaches blindly for his phone on the nearby coffee table. He pushes himself up against the back of his threadbare couch and checks the time. The bright screen blinds him, painting the walls in long, ominous shadows. Five am, the phone reads. Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and tips his head to the ceiling.

  
It’s raining. He can hear the insistent patter against his perpetually fogged over window. The sound probably triggered the nightmare. It’s always raining in Gotham. He hates it, both the rain and the city, but even after a year’s worth of sleepless nights, he can’t convince himself to leave.  
  
  
The smell of soil flares again and Jason scratches absentmindedly at his arms. His skin is still too new, too tight. Long-faded scars blister under his fingertips, the grooves of a hundred untold stories swelled into angry red welts. He forces his hands from his arms and shoves them between his knees, bracing them there.  
  
  
"It's too early for this shit," he moans to no one, bowing over his knees. He rocks himself absently, back and forth, back and forth.  
  
  
By the time Jason has pieced himself together again, the blue morning light has transitioned to a watery early afternoon grey. He picks up the remote from the coffee table—shaking the leftover tremors from his hand—and flicks on the TV. He'd picked up the television at a pawn shop after a particularly bad night a couple weeks ago. It’s small and ancient with patchy reception, but it’s loud enough to drown out the rain. To him, it’s a luxury.  
  
  
He turns the volume to max capacity. There’s an old Frankenstein movie playing. Screams of, "it's alive, it's alive," follow him into the bathroom.  
  
  
Jason trains his eyes on the dingy tile floor, avoiding the mirror. He turns on the shower and waits for the steam to billow towards the ceiling before stepping over the side of the tub and leaning his face into the cascading spray. He shivers, even as his skin turns an angry pink. Cold somewhere the water can’t touch.

  
Steam suffuses the air, and Jason loses himself in it.

  
When the water goes lukewarm, he turns off the tap and wraps a towel around his waist. A trail of damp footprints charts his trajectory back to the couch. He slumps gracelessly into the dented cushions, not caring that he’s still drenched.  
  
  
"You have created a monster and it will destroy you," a voice from the television warns. Jason sighs and reaches for the remote, changing the station to some cheery jingle about thankful families and artificially engorged turkeys. It’s almost Thanksgiving, he remembers with a start. He hadn't even noticed it was already Fall. The realization prickles his skin like gooseflesh.  
  
  
He kills the power and falls bonelessly to his side, trying to avoid his reflection in the blank screen. The world spins around him. His neighbor’s music bleeds through the walls, a high-pitched hypnotizing hum. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm goes off. Jason is removed from it all, thoughts slipping away like tepid water down the drain.

  
His eyelids droop, weeks of poor sleep finally catching up to him. Rain taps against the window. He thinks to check the weather forecast, but when he tries to move his arm, he can’t. His eyes fly open, but he can’t see anything. It’s dark. The smell of musty fabric floods his nostrils. His fingertips are stinging, wet with blood.  
  
  
Jason squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in air through his teeth. “This isn’t real,” he tells himself, voice a shaky whisper. He digs his nails into his palm. “It’s not real.”  
  
  
When he opens his eyes again, he’s back in his apartment. He scrambles up from the couch—heart in his throat—and stumbles to the middle of the room. He turns, swinging his head from side to side. Searching, but not for anything tangible. He turns on lamps and digs through closets, but he already knows there’s nothing to find. The only ghost haunting the apartment is him. 

  
A door slams down the hall, and Jason jumps. His stomach swirls with a storm of flies. Maggots squirm under his feet. Suddenly, the room is too small, the air too stale. He needs to get out, to see the sky. He dresses quickly, fingers fumbling over buttons and zippers. By the time he steps into the hall—shoes untied and wet hair dampening the collar of his sweatshirt—the walls have begun to close in around him.

  
He walks quickly with his head down. When he reaches the stairwell, he takes the steps two at a time. It’s dimly lit and smells like piss, but it’s almost always empty. Perfect for avoiding confrontations with his neighbors and the burden of small talk. He’s never been good at it. Even less so after his resurrection.

  
The temperature lowers as he descends. It’s colder than he expected. Dense, grey clouds hang low over the city, threatening snow. Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks without direction. His only purpose to outrun himself.

  
The street is crowded. People mill aimlessly around the sidewalk, burdened with oversized shopping bags and overlight wallets. Teenagers huddle in doorways, trying to bum smokes off passing strangers. Jason is careful to avoid them all. He steadies his eyes on the ground and tucks his dripping nose into his collar. No one avoids him, but they don’t notice him, either. He’s completely unremarkable. It’s comforting. 

  
"Out in this weather with wet hair? Have I taught you nothing, Jason?" A familiar voice sounds behind him.

  
Jason freezes. "Talia?" He asks, turning. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  
Talia leans out the window of an expensive-looking black car, a warm blot of color in a sea of grey. "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by and say 'hi.'"

  
"In the neighborhood?" Jason asks incredulously. "What for?"

  
Talia doesn’t answer. Instead, she exits the car and closes the distance between them. Her low heels click across the concrete. "You're not properly dressed,” she says, pushing his damp hair out of his face. “Do you want to get sick?"

  
"You don't get sick from being cold, Tal. Trust me, I'd know."

  
"Still, I'd feel better if you got in the car and warmed up a little."

  
Jason gives her a crooked smile. "I’m not to the point of turning tricks yet, but check back next week when rent’s due."

  
Talia scoffs, but it’s fond. "Must you always deflect with inappropriate humor?"  
  
  
“I must.”  
  
  
"Let me treat you to breakfast while I’m here. You look like you could use a good meal."

  
Jason scours his brain for a reason to say no, but the truth is, he could use the company. If only to get out of his own head for a while. He always has a disturbing impulse to talk on days like today— days when his death looms so close. 

  
"Sure," he relents, allowing Talia to slip an arm around his. "But I’m choosing the place."

  
Jason’s spot of choice is a seedy diner at the end of his street, squeezed between a juice bar and a Crate and Barrel. The place is old and run-down, grandfathered in before modern conventions like health code violations and lead-free paint. The food is too greasy and none of the waitresses are hot, but it’s close to his apartment and one of the few public places Jason feels comfortable visiting when he needs to get out of his apartment. He’s mildly impressed that Talia enters without hesitation. 

  
"Two coffees," Jason shouts to the wide-hipped woman behind the counter. He leads Talia to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, away from cigarette smoke and prying ears. The benches are sticky and ripped at the seams. Jason chooses the less lumpy looking side for himself out of spite.

  
“So,” he starts when Talia has settled, "I know you don't want to tell me why you're in Gotham and that's—fine, I guess, but can I at least know why you wanted to talk with me before you left?" 

  
Talia waits to answer as two steaming coffees and a couple of stained, laminated menus are dropped on their table.

  
"I spent a year taking care of you, Jason. Can't I want to visit?"

  
"You can, but sentimentality isn't really your style."

  
"I think you're confusing me for your father."

  
“I don’t have a father,” Jason corrects with the ease of a person who’s had this argument many times before. 

  
Talia unfurls the napkin wrapped around the cutlery and examines her fork. "Do you really think that?"

  
Jason doesn’t reply. He turns his face to the water-stained window to stare at the dead flies littering the sill. He wonders how long they struggled against the glass before their bodies gave out. A distant, metallic ring cuts through the low rumble of conversation.

  
"Everyone's out to get you, aren't they, Jason?"

  
Jason turns his face back to Talia. "Hey, cool seeing you and all, but if all you wanna do is sit here and scold me—"

  
"That's not what I meant to say," Talia interrupts. Her eyes scan his face, piecing him together like a puzzle. "It's just that—"

  
Jason sighs. "What?"

  
"I'm no longer certain that what I'm doing is helping you."

  
"And what is it that you're doing exactly?" Jason asks. Heat ripples from the tips of his ears to his toes.

  
"Allowing you this—this freedom. I don't know if you're ready for it."

  
"Freedom?"

  
"To live alone, to go out unaccompanied, to—" 

  
"I do fine on my own," Jason cuts her off. He picks at his nail beds under the table.

  
" _This_ is what you call doing 'fine?'" Talia demands, gesturing to his rumpled clothes, his damp, matted hair, his sunken eyes.

  
Jason rolls his eyes under her scrutiny. "What's with this sudden guilt, Tal? You help me, alright? You're the only one who actually listens."

  
"Yes. But perhaps I shouldn't."

  
"What's that supposed to mean?"

  
"I'm not easily fooled, Jason. I can see how tired you are. You're having nightmares again."

  
"So?"

  
"So you're not getting better. Clearly, whatever it is that you're doing, it's not working."

  
"I'm fine, I'm—I'm coping."

  
Talia only sighs.

  
Jason rubs a hand over his face and leans an elbow on the table. His head pounds from exhaustion or maybe hunger. "What do you want from me?"

  
"You know the answer to that."

  
"I'm not going back to the loony bin. I'm not crazy."

  
"That's not what I'm suggesting," Talia says, sipping her coffee and glancing at Jason's pale, drawn face. "Although it wouldn't exactly be out of line. You look like you haven't slept in weeks."

  
"I've slept."

  
"You don't even own a bed."

  
"I have a couch, and I thought I asked you to stop having your cronies trace me."

  
Talia shrugs. "You asked..."

  
"Well, now I'm telling. I don't need you checking up on me."

  
"History begs to differ," Talia says simply.

  
"Right," Jason says, flicking the saltshaker and watching it glide to the edge of the table. "So sorry to be a burden."

  
"You're not a burden." Talia picks up the salt and places it back in front of the napkin dispenser. "But I retain my right to keep tabs. I worry about you being alone."

  
"Dr. Shelley said it was fine."

  
"She said a lot of things and I find her trust in you endearing, but unlike her, I know you."

  
"I'm not like Bruce, I don't keep things bottled up until I explode."

  
Talia stares at him, her thoughts as obvious as if she had spoken them.

  
"I'm not," Jason insists, desperate to make himself believe it. "I'm not like him."

  
Talia nods sympathetically. "I know you're not."

  
"Because I'm not."

  
"I know."

  
The two sit in silence, looking everywhere but at each other as the sounds of clinking silverware and chattering voices fill the void between them.

  
"Maybe you're right,” Talia finally relents, running a well-manicured nail down the side of the chipped ceramic mug. “Maybe I shouldn't keep tracking you."

  
"Daddy finally catch wind of your unhealthy obsession?"

  
"It has nothing to do with my Father."

  
"Finally realized you can't use me to get to Batman, then?”

  
Talia shifts in her seat. "I readily admit that, initially, that was my reason for taking you into my keeping."

  
"Mmhmm," Jason hums, taking a sip of his coffee.

  
"But despite what you might think. I'm not heartless, Jason. Even I can't spend a year tending to someone without growing some kind of attachment."

  
"Wow, Tal, you're breaking my heart."

  
"God knows why I care, you certainly don't make it easy."

  
"Yeah, that's what my Pops always said, minus the first part."

  
"There's no end to your parental issues, are there?"

  
"You're one to talk."

  
Talia smiles and brushes her hair behind her ear. "At least my father knows I'm alive."

  
Jason rolls his eyes. "That would hurt if my real dad wasn't dead or if I considered Bruce to be one."

  
"Jason—" Talia starts to argue, but she stops herself, folding her lips together. "I don't think you should be living alone."

  
"Oh?” Jason asks, scraping his nails over his knees. “And where do you propose I go? Ol' Pops al Ghul kicked me out, if you remember."

  
"There are other options."

  
"Is that so?"

  
"Bruce—"

  
"You're not serious—" Jason cuts her off, slamming a fist on the table. Their cups rattle.  
  
  
"He can offer you the help that you deny you need."

  
"And what kind of help is that exactly? Emotionally repressed conversations? Looks of disappointment? Oh, oh, I know! Reminders of what a failure I am!"

  
"Bruce still cares about you," Talia states like it’s a matter of fact. Like Jason hasn’t spent the better part of a year convincing himself otherwise.

  
The waitress comes by before Jason has the chance to respond. She refills their mugs and takes down their orders—pancakes and bacon for Jason, egg white omelette for Talia. When she leaves, they sit in silence, contemplating the graffiti carved into the cheap laminate tabletop. 

  
"He would help you if you asked." Talia breaks the stalemate.

  
"I know."

  
"If you know, then—"

  
"I don't want his help," Jason concludes, picking up his coffee and blowing off the steam.

  
"I don't believe you," Talia says, eyes hard and impenetrable. "You do want his help, but what you need is something he can't give, so you'd rather run away like a dog with its tail between its legs than face up to the truth."

  
"That's not fair."

  
"Life's not fair," Talia spits. She pauses, sighs, and places her hand on Jason's forearm. "Your death wasn't fair," she amends, softer, "for anyone."

  
"I didn't see anyone else in that grave with me." Jason yanks his arm from Talia’s touch and takes a sip of coffee. It burns his tongue. "Of course, I couldn't see much of anything when I was digging my way out."

  
"So you blame Bruce for everything?"

  
Jason rubs his burnt tongue against the roof of his mouth. The back of his neck prickles with sweat. "No, I don't blame him for—for that. It wasn't his fault."

  
"It wasn't yours either, Jason."

  
"Sure," Jason says. His tongue is heavy. "I know that."

  
Talia leans back and folds her arms across her chest. "Well, if not him, then what about your brother?

  
The world stutters. One second the waitress is across the room, the next she’s dropping a bowl of individually packaged jams on their table. Jason blinks at it, his nails dug into his thighs. "Please tell me you don’t mean Dick."

  
"I know your relationship with him is strained—"

  
"More like nonexistent," Jason mutters, swallowing hard. "Where's this coming from, anyway? Sick of playing babysitter?"

  
"I told you, I'm worried."

  
"Worried about what? They didn't even think I'd be able to speak again. Cut me some fucking slack."

  
"Whether you want to admit it or not, something is going on with you. You don't seem like yourself.”

  
"What does that even mean?" Jason asks. He rubs at his forehead, his hand shaking. Talia continues to talk, but he can’t hear it. It’s like she’s speaking to him from across the room. Her words melt together into an intelligible slurry. The world drains of its color. 

  
Jason’s heart thunders against his chest. A distant, high-pitched scream buzzes in his ear. He can't get enough air, the smell of greasy food and cigarette smoke is too dense. He’s sure Talia is saying his name, but he can’t make his mouth move to tell her he’s okay. He’s unmoored, falling down and down into the waiting darkness.  
  
  
Suddenly, there’s pressure around his wrist. Jason tries to fight it, but his limbs are useless—dead as a tagged corpse. He’s wrenched to the edge of the booth, his head shoved between his knees.  
  
  
"And you question why I worry," a voice echoes above him.

  
"What's wrong with him?" Someone asks. Jason might be embarrassed if he wasn’t busy trying to piece himself together again.

  
"Nothing. He's fine, can you bring us some water and a cloth?"  
  
  
Jason doesn’t hear a response, just the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. He sucks in a long breath through his nose, releases it slowly from his mouth. Repeating the process until the world begins to rebuild itself around him. His fingers prickle to life. He’s nauseated, face burning hot.  
  
  
"Sorry," he manages when he trusts himself to speak. His mouth is desert dry. His tongue sticks to his teeth.  
  
  
Talia presses a wet cloth to the nape of his neck. "Can you sit up?" Her voice is calm, dangerously metered.  
  
  
Jason nods and straightens. His vision tunnels briefly before righting itself again.  
  
  
"You're bone white," Talia says, pushing a glass of orange juice at him. “Drink. Slowly.”

  
Jason feels his heart pulsing through his entire body. He reaches for the glass, his fingers trembling. 

  
Talia watches him, evaluating. His skin blisters under her gaze. "Finish that and then you can eat."

  
"If you're expecting me to put up a fight, I'm not going to," Jason says. He picks up the orange juice and swallows a mouthful. The bright acid burns all the way down to his stomach.

  
"Is that supposed to reassure me? You just had a panic attack, Jason. What happens when no one's around to help you?"

  
"It hardly ever happens."

  
"That doesn't answer my question," Talia says.

  
"What the fuck do you want me to say?” Jason demands. “I take hot showers, I work out, I lie on the floor and wait for it to pass. I do whatever the fuck I have to, but I get through it." His head hangs low. He clenches his nails into his palms. "What I don't do is go crawling back to the guy who let my killer go and then _replaced_ me. I’d never do that. I'd never _want_ to do it."

  
Talia frowns. The sharp edge of her anger dulls. "So you know about that." Her voice is like the soft scrawl of lead on paper.

  
"How could I not know? I have a television. I get the newspaper. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out."

  
"I know it's difficult—"

  
Jason looks up, eyes narrowed. "And I still want to know why you're so hell-bent on bringing me back to him. I know you have an ulterior motive, Talia. My brain might've been scrambled, but I'm not stupid. There's a reason you're here and there's a reason you came to see me. I’m not some fucking bartering chip for you to get into Bruce’s pants!"

  
Talia says nothing. She crosses her arms on the table, face inscrutable.

  
"And you still won’t talk. Fine, that's fine," Jason says, pulling himself up from the table. His knees wobble precariously, but he manages to stay upright, hobbling to the door like a newborn foal. It’s even colder outside than before. Jason stumbles to the curb and sits, wrapping his arms around his knees. He doesn’t move when he hears the bell on the diner door jingle.

  
Talia silently lowers herself next to him. She sits an arm’s length away, hands folded neatly over her knees. The bitter wind whips through their hair. It’s nostalgic. They’d spent so many days like this before returning to Gotham—sitting in the dirt, watching the ocean, waiting for Jason to find something resembling himself. The heat of his anger flickers like a candle caught in the breeze.  
  
  
"I’m tired," Jason says, eyes pointed forward. Strangers weave around them, holding their loved ones close to ward off the cold.

  
Talia watches him, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. When he doesn’t, she presses her lips together. "So what are you going to do about it?"

  
The rain starts again, a light, icy drizzle. Jason sighs and turns his head to the sky. The clouds are dense, blocking the sun. "Forget."

  
"Does that work?"

  
"Hell no,” Jason replies with a mirthless laugh, “but it's all I've got."

  
"Maybe not," Talia says. It’s cryptic, but she doesn’t offer an explanation, and Jason doesn’t ask for one.

  
A black car rolls up. Talia stands, brushing debris from her coat. "That's my ride."

  
"What, leaving so soon?" Jason asks, pulling himself up. "The party’s just getting started.”

  
Talia's mouth tilts into a barely suppressed smile. She reaches for Jason’s face, but retracts her hand at the last second. "You know how to reach me," she says.

  
"Yeah, yeah." Jason stuffs his hands in his pocket to hide the intermittent tremble. 

  
Talia steps into the car and rolls down the window. "I mean it, Jason!" She calls. "Think about what we discussed!"

  
"Not on your life," Jason mumbles to himself. He throws up a halfhearted wave as the car rolls away, tires grumbling on wet asphalt.  
  
  
Jason trudges home, more tired than when he left. Neon lights illuminate the puddles on the sidewalk in vivid shades of pink and green. He should stop in a store and stock up on groceries while he’s out, but the thought of it is exhausting. This part of town is crawling with young yuppie couples. Silver spoon kids gutting out old row houses, painting the interiors white and festooning them with fake plants and string lights.  
  
  
Death is something they heard about on tv, struggle and pain a lyric in a song. Jason has no place in their world. He’ll go out late tonight when the stores are less crowded, the people less happy.  
  
  
‘ _Just gotta watch out for pesky caped crusaders and their brightly-colored cohorts_ ,” he thinks, dipping his nose into his collar.  
  
  
The walk back to his apartment is blessedly short. The encroaching cold has cleared out the crowd. Streetlights flicker to life, hazy amber in a sea of inky blue. The first rogue snowflakes float through the haze as Jason turns into the lobby of his building. He grabs his newspaper from the mailroom and tucks it under his arm, bounding up the steps two at a time.  
  
  
Halfway up, he slows. Shadows loom across the walls, elongated limbs like a dark claw. A few levels below him, a stair creaks.  
  
  
“Hello?” Jason asks. No one replies, but the platform vibrates, almost imperceptibly. Something isn’t right. He stops at the top of the landing, peering down the stairwell behind him. He holds his breath and listens. The only sound is the electric buzz of the exposed overhead bulbs, the hollow clang of the janky old radiator.  
  
  
Jason swallows and shakes his head, worried about his increasingly tenuous grip on reality. Maybe Talia and Dr. Shelley were right. The only thing out to get him is his own mind. He grips his house key in his pocket, flipping it between his fingers, palms damp with sweat. When he reaches the door, he slips the key into the lock and turns, but there’s no resistance. The door drifts open an inch.  
  
  
It’s already unlocked.  
  
  
Jason takes a step back. The hair on the back of his neck bristles. His vision shudders like fists against a window. He desperately rewinds his mental reel of the afternoon, but no matter how many times he replays the events in his head, he can’t parse the past with the present.  
  
  
He locked the door. He knows he did. It’s as ingrained a habit as breathing.  
  
  
Jason stares at his warped reflection in the doorknob, calculating his next move. His phone is in the apartment. Even if it wasn’t, who would he call? The police are as corrupt as they are useless and Talia’s motives are as grey as her morals. There’s no one. Just like that night three years ago— screaming his voice ragged for help that would never come—the only person Jason has to rely on is himself.  
  
  
The darkness behind the door looms—an unanswered threat. It angers Jason as much as it scares him. He gathers his resolve and kicks the door open. It swings with a groan and slams into the wall. Someone down the hall yells at him to keep it down, but he ignores it.  
  
  
He reaches his hand in and flicks on the overhead. Light settles into the shadows, revealing nothing. His phone is on the coffee table, his shitty tv rests on a throne of pizza boxes, rabbit ears pointed at ten and two. Not a petty criminal, then, or at least one who realized he has nothing worth stealing.  
  
  
In a way, Jason would prefer it if his place was ransacked. Then, the answers would be easy.  
  
  
He steps into the room. The cheap panel flooring creaks under his feet. Snowflakes patter softly against the window. The stillness is disconcerting.  
  
  
His eyes flit around the room, desperate for an answer. It was probably just a maintenance person replacing a bulb or something equally as mundane, but common sense is a luxury of a common life. It doesn’t stand up to a lifetime of tangling with the worst Gotham has to offer. Jason gave up on discounting the most improbable scenario when he woke up six feet underground, choking on a mouthful of formaldehyde.  
  
  
An unlocked door is a sizzling red ember, burning down the wick on a stick of dynamite. Jason explodes into action. He rips the cushions from the couch, searching each seam and exhuming the cottony stuffing. Finding nothing, he moves to the cabinets and drawers. He piles crumpled napkins and condiment packets on the floor, stacks his paltry dishware collection on the table. A chipped mug, three stolen diner cups, and two mismatching plates. All he finds is an angry cockroach and a whole lot of nothing.  
  
  
Sweat is beading in his hairline. He swipes it away with his bicep and paces to the closet. He yanks the doors open. Clothes sway in the breeze. Jason digs through jacket pockets, tearing shirts and pants off hangers and flinging them to the ground. His eyes stray lower, to the mound of journals Dr. Shelley had encouraged him to keep. Records of his worst nightmares and recovered memories, shoved shamefully beneath a blanket like a teenager’s porn stash.  
  
  
Jason squats and reaches for the blanket. Before his fingers make contact, he freezes. His muscles go rigid—stiff as a corpse. Every inch of his body resists against it. He closes his eyes, tilts his head to the ceiling and exhales. Words can’t hurt him. Even if they’re his own, painfully excavated in trembling, blotted scrawl.  
  
  
He rolls his shoulders and tries again. This time, his fingers make contact. He gathers the blanket into his hand and slowly pulls it away from the stack of journals. Something heavy clatters to the floor. Jason startles and stumbles backward. He lands on his butt—heart in his throat—a small, silver handgun, resting innocuously at his feet.   
  
  
Jason stares at it.  
  
  
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. Thoughts are ripped from his mind like the pages in his journals, gouged out with a heavy pen and crumbled into dust.  
  
  
A gun. The symbolism turns his stomach.  
  
  
It has to be Talia’s doing. Suddenly, her appearance today makes sense. She was there to distract him, to keep him out of his apartment while one of her henchmen planted the gun. This is all one big ploy to get to Bruce, maybe even an attempt to lure Jason into a crime. She was tired of waiting. They’d finally reached the expiration on her sympathy.  
  
  
Jason refuses to consider the other possibility. That in a certain mind frame, a bullet can start to look like a way out. He wouldn’t put it past Talia to have considered it. There’s always more than one way to solve a problem. A good strategist never leaves themselves without an escape clause.  
  
  
Jason jumps to his feet, suddenly consumed with righteous vigor. He staggers to the couch as though drunk. Little tufts of cotton float like clouds in his wake. He thumbs Talia’s contact and digs his nails into his scalp, head slung low between his knees. The phone rings over and over, unbearably shrill. Finally, it transfers to voicemail. An automated voice recites the number. Jason withdraws a shaky breath, his lips trembling.  
  
  
“You really had to go there. You really had to. What the fuck, Talia,” He gasps after the tone. His voice is thin, on the edge of breaking. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You think this is fun? That it’s all a big game? You can’t—I can’t—” Jason breaks off. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. “A gun. A fucking gun. I can’t...fucking—” He folds again, forehead in his palm, desperately trying to catch his breath. A hurricane of half-formed thoughts whirl around his brain, too fleeting to catch. “I’m changing the locks,” he says, distant. “I’m—I’m fucking moving. So don’t contact me. Just...stay the fuck away.”  
  
  
Jason ends the call and drops the phone. He fights the urge to smash it. His whole body is numb. Tears clog his throat, but he refuses to let them fall. You can’t break someone who’s already broken. He won’t give Talia the satisfaction.  
  
  
Snowflakes swirl outside the window, white stars against the evening dark. The air is thick with the smell of someone’s dinner. Jason picks at the peeling skin on his bottom lip. He rolls the torn pieces between his thumb and forefinger and flicks them to the floor.  
  
  
He has to do something about the gun. His knee-jerk reaction is to throw it out the window, but the idea of some kid finding it and shooting himself or his friend is untenable. He’s not Talia. His organs were stuffed with sawdust, his blood exchanged for embalming fluids, but he still has a heart.  
  
  
Jason drags himself to the closet with energy he doesn’t have. He’s detached from reality, watching himself move from behind, like a shadow stuck to his shoe. He drops to his knees in front of the gun and gathers it into the discarded blanket, careful not to touch it with his bare hands. He swipes the stack of journals away with his arm. They tumble over, scattering across the floor. Jason drops the bundled gun in the back corner of the closet and re-stacks the journals around it. It’s not perfect, but it’ll suffice until he has time to discard it properly. 

  
What’s another ghost in his closet? At this point, he’s starting a collection.  
  
  
Jason trudges back to the living room, numbly purveying the upheaval in his home. Empty pillow casings litter the ground like deflated balloons. Their cottony innards drift across the floor, collecting in corners. He’ll deal with it later, when he isn't a stiff breeze away from collapsing. Jason turns on the television, anything to mitigate the storm in his head. This time, it’s playing the old Peanuts Thanksgiving special.  
  
  
“Holidays always depress me,” Charlie Brown laments.  
  
  
Jason smiles despite himself.  
  
  
He turns up the volume as high as it will go and crashes on the couch. The exposed springs dig into his back. He lies there, asking questions of the water-stained popcorn ceiling.

  
"Fuck," Jason chokes, screwing his eyes shut. He can't even hear himself over Peppermint Patty's bitching.  
  
  
Somehow, he manages to fall asleep. He doesn't remember the exact moment it happens, just that one second he’s curled on his side—shipwrecked on a shore of painful memories—and the next, he’s waking up to "Planes, Train, and Automobiles" and feeling marginally more sane.  
  
  
He sits up and the room spins. His pulse throbs behind his eyes. ‘ _Food_ ,’ his mind supplies, and then he remembers that he has none. Not unless you count the packets of soy sauce and ketchup, still littering the kitchen floor. Jason drags a hand over his face. He needs to eat. He’ll suffer for it tomorrow if he doesn’t. ‘ _Anyway_ ,’ he thinks to himself bitterly, ‘ _it’s not like the day can get any worse_ .’  
  
  
Snow gathers in a tiny drift outside the window ledge. Jason grabs a leather jacket off the floor on the way to the door and pulls it over his hoodie. He’s glad his shoes are already on. One more step and he might have convinced himself it wasn’t worth the effort.  
  
  
He slips his hand into his pocket and presses his thumb over the grooves of his house key. He’ll have to check the paper for apartment listings later. Hopefully the task will seem less monumental when he has food in his stomach. 

  
The street is quiet, Gotham’s perpetual exhaust-haze dispersed for the night. Jason tucks his hands into his armpits and watches the sky for familiar silhouettes. In some secret corner of his heart, he misses it. The feeling that the city belonged to him, that he was untouchable.  
  
  
By the time he reaches the store, his worries have settled like the snow, sagging down its striped vinyl awnings. The aisles are mostly empty. A cashier slumps with her elbow on the counter. A haggard-looking mother tugs her child to the baby supplies. Jason grabs a basket and wanders listlessly past packages of pasta. He grabs a box at random and tosses it into his basket. A group of three teenagers slink past him towards the beer and wine coolers. Jason tries to ignore them, but their conversation pierces his concentration.

  
"Just do it, man. Don't be such a pussy," a tall, gangly boy with bad skin says.

  
"I'd do your Mom's pussy," a kid with a buzz cut and blue hoodie interjects from the side.

  
"Shut up, dude," the tall boy laughs, pushing his friend back by the shoulder. "That's fucking nasty."

  
"Yeah, have you seen his Mom?" A kid with red cheeks and curly brown hair snickers.

  
Jason watches as a middle-aged woman in an oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants skirts around the group, clearly uncomfortable.  
  
  
“Excuse me,” she mumbles, opening the door for the frozen vegetables. It grazes Buzz Cut’s shoulder.  
  
  
The contact is slight, but Buzz Cut turns, eyes like mace. He flattens his palm on the open freezer door and slams it shut. The woman withdraws her hand with a yelp.

  
"What's your problem, Lady?" Buzz Cut asks. He squares his shoulders, rocks forward on the balls of his feet. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you good manners?”

  
Jason tenses. He figured these guys were in here to steal some beer. A crime, sure, but a relatively harmless one. He had no problem sitting back and letting it happen. Assault is something else entirely. 

  
He emerges from between the cereal and chips and strides between the boys and the woman, feigning intense interest in the frozen meals. The woman takes her chance and bolts to the front of the store. Buzz Cut moves to follow her, but Jason grabs his forearm and holds him back.

  
"Hey, man, back off," he warns, voice low and calm.

  
Buzz Cut wrenches his arm from Jason's grip. "Who the fuck are you?"

  
"You think it makes you tough to rough up some innocent lady?" Jason asks, ignoring the question.

  
"What, you her fucking husband or something?"

  
"Why don't you and your friends go home, jerk each other off, and cry about how you're too ugly to get girlfriends."

  
Red Cheeks rears back and hurls a punch at Jason’s head. Jason ducks. The fist whizzes by his ear and slams into the freezer door. The glass shatters. Tiny glittering pieces scatter across the floor.  
  
  
Red Cheeks falls to his knees, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Someone at the front of the store starts screaming to call the police.  
  
  
The tall guy rushes Jason next. He grabs for his collar, wrenching it tight around his neck.

  
"You guys need to chill the fuck out and go home!" Jason warns. He swings his arm to brace Tall Guy’s head and slams his elbow into his neck. Tall Guy wavers and slumps to the floor, unconscious.

  
Buzz Cut walks around his incapacitated friends, broken glass crunching under his shoes.   
"Nah, not really feeling that," he says.  
  
  
Jason raises his fists. “I mean it, dude.” He clenches his nails into his palms to stop his hands from shaking. “Last warning.”  
  
  
Buzz Cut advances slowly, like an animal eyeing its prey. His eyes are hollow, his empty smile rabid. He reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a knife. The metal gleams, a silver scar under the bright fluorescents.  
  
  
“What, am I supposed to be intimidated?” Jason asks in as unimpressed a voice as he can register.  
  
  
Buzz Cut lunges. Jason sidesteps him easily and thrusts an elbow into his back. Buzz Cut bends with a gasp and Jason grabs him by the shoulders, kneeing him under the ribs. He faceplants the floor—breathless. Tiny shards of glass digging into his cheeks  
  
  
Jason kicks the knife under a rack of mineral water. He doesn’t take the time to bask in his victory. Three dumb punks are nothing in the scope of Gotham’s vast villain circuit, but it’s probably not a bad test run for a sidekick in training.  
  
  
He grabs the pasta out of his basket and runs around a corner, heading towards the exit. He freezes at the end of an aisle. There’s a big, bulked up guy staring him down from the other end, doing his best to look stupid and menacing.

  
"Of fucking course," Jason sighs, dropping the pasta and lifting his fists in defense. Not just some kids being young and dumb, then. Not if they’ve got back up.  
  
  
The new guy barrels down the aisle toward him. His broad shoulders slam against shelves, upending bags of chips and packages of snack cakes. Jason deflects his punches with his forearms. The impact vibrates through him, rattling his teeth. A particularly hard hit sends him careening into a shelf of juice. He crumples to the floor, winded. Big plastic bottles fall to the ground and burst. Grape-scented juice soaks into his jeans, sticky and wet.  
  
  
“Maybe you should think about...laying off the steroids,” Jason wheezes, rolling out of the way when a kick comes flying at his head. 

  
Jason scrambles to get his knees under him. A meaty fist comes rocketing through the air. He dodges, and it hits the rack, instead, flattening a shelf of sliced bread.  
  
  
Jason tries to stand, but the juice-soaked floor is slippery under his sneakers. He stumbles, distracted just long enough for a heavy kick to slam into his side. The sharp taste of copper explodes on his tongue. He careens forward, legs turned to jelly. Squashed packages of bread cushion his fall. The world narrows into the searing agony racing across his ribs, the airless burning in his lungs.   
  
  
Another foot rushes towards his head. Jason rolls out of the way—chest heaving. He clutches onto a low shelf and drags himself to his feet. His knees waver under his weight, but he manages to stay upright. He hobbles backward, hand braced protectively over his ribs. The meathead leers at him. For a moment, Jason thinks he might speak, but instead, he advances down the aisle, enormous arms flexed at his sides, veins bulging.  
  
  
Jason is outmatched in terms of sheer power, but he’s fast—agile from years of swinging around buildings with Batman. He charges at the oversized brute, feet slapping against grey tile, pulse fluttering in his ears. He drops to the ground at the last second, using his momentum and the juice-slick floor to slide right between the beefy guy’s legs. The huge goon swings his arms to catch him, but he’s too slow. Jason bounces up on the other side, a giddy laugh bubbling in his throat.  
  
  
He careens around the corner, his heart racing from adrenaline now rather than fear. He hasn’t felt like this since that rainy night three years ago when he conquered lacquered wood and six feet of hard-packed soil with a belt buckle and determination. He feels like a survivor. For the first time since emerging from his grave, forcefully thrust into a life he hadn't asked to revisit: he feels like _himself_.

  
A scream from the front of the store yanks Jason back to the present. "Shit," he curses, scanning his surroundings for the next move.  
  
  
The big guy is already nearing the end of the aisle. Jason searches the shelves, scouring his mind for a solution. He spots a display of cleaning supplies. Brooms, mops, and big white bottles of bleach, stacked in neat rows. Jason rushes toward it and starts unscrewing lids. He snatches a bottle from the shelf just as a giant fist barrels down at his head.  
  
  
“You’ve really gotta clean up your act,” Jason quips, flinging the bleach at the guy’s face. Nothing comes out. Jason blinks down at the bottle, dumbfounded. When he looks, understanding crashes through him. There’s a safety seal. Before he has the chance to fix his mistake, the meathead slaps the bottle away and grips his burly hand into his collar. This close, Jason can smell his breath. Steaming shit with an undercurrent of rot.  
  
  
Jason digs his nails into the guy’s leathery skin. He doesn’t even draw blood. The goon wrenches his grip tighter, lifting Jason’s feet off the ground. Jason’s face grows hot. He thrashes and kicks, struggling for a breath. His lips tingle. Drool bubbles at the corner of his lips. The store starts to transform, melting like scenery through a rainy window. The meaty hand under his nails turns to splintered wood, the overhead lights flicker, threatening to go out.  
  
  
Jason clamps his eyes shut. He has to do something. He refuses to die a second death, an accessory to a fight that was never his.

  
He draws on instinct, everything he learned from the street. The time before Batman tried to force him into a mold he couldn’t fit. When the answer comes, it’s obvious. He rears his leg back and kicks with all his strength, right into the meathead’s crotch.  
  
  
The guy groans and folds, veins bulging out of his forehead. Jason uses the momentary distraction to blindly grab for another bottle of bleach. He searches the lid with his fingers, mentally cheering when he realizes it’s one he had already opened. He pierces the safety seal with his thumb and slings the bottle’s contents into the guy’s purpling face.  
  
  
The effect is immediate. The goon starts convulsively coughing. He drops Jason to the floor, desperately scrubbing at his face with his hands. A long trail of drool hangs from his bottom lip. Red webbed capillaries bloom across his eyes. He stumbles into a display of air fresheners. Cans drop and roll across the tile. The goon tries to right himself, but his foot finds one. He careens backward, unable to gain purchase. His skull meets the linoleum with a loud crack. The shelves rattle on impact.  
  
  
Jason stares, waiting for him to get up again, a new bottle of bleach gripped tightly in his hand. A minute goes by. Then two. Finally, Jason’s legs give out beneath him. He slumps to the floor, greedily gulping mouthfuls of oxygen. The astringent smell of bleach burns the back of his throat. His neck is tender, probably already bruising. He touches it with his fingertips, tracing the swollen, fever-warm skin. It’s not his proudest victory, but hell, he’ll take it.  
  
  
Before he’s had the chance to fully recover, another scream pierces the air. Jason struggles to his feet. He rips a broom off a display and races to the front of the store, brandishing it in front of him like a spear. “Stop,” he pants, only half recovered, “let her go.”  
  
  
“That doesn’t sound like any fun,” Buzz Cut says.  
  
  
Jason stumbles out of the aisle, finally getting a full view of the scene. The yoga pants-wearing woman from before is sitting on the checkout conveyor belt, legs crossed with a smile as Buzz Cut kisses her neck.  
  
  
Jason grimaces. “Dude, she's way too old for you.”  
  
  
Someone coughs. Jason glances covertly to the right. There’s a handful of scared pedestrians, pressed up into a corner by a wall of multi-colored slushie machines.  
  
  
Buzz Cut kisses Yoga Pant's neck again, nipping at her ear before picking up his knife. He presses it to the woman's neck. She responds with an eruption of giggles. Buzz Cut traces the tip across her jugular before turning around and pointing it at Jason.  
  
  
"If the knife comes with neck kisses, I'll pass," Jason says. He tightens his grip on the broom, holding it protectively in front of his chest.  
  
  
“You gonna sweep the floor, sweetheart?” Buzz Cut mocks. He crosses the room, twirling the knife in his hand. Shadows sink under his eyes, carving his wan features into a skull. When he’s only a few feet away, he lunges.  
  
  
Jason dodges easily. He whirls around and jams the end of the broom into the middle of Buzz Cut’s back. The guy trips and drops his knife. He stumbles into a rack of bar soap and Jason races up behind him, bracing the broom across his neck and shoulders.  
  
  
Jason leans all his weight into the handle. “Sweep the floor with you, maybe,” he says, gritting his teeth with a lopsided smile.   
  
  
“That’s not very nice of you,” a woman’s voice sounds from behind him.  
  
  
A thrill of panic tingles down Jason’s spine. He turns just in time to see the dark blur of a wine bottle colliding with the side of his head. It hits with a disconcerting pop. Then, nothing. He wakes up on the floor. Blood and alcohol dribble down his ear, gathering in a puddle under his head. There’s a drumbeat in his temple. Kaleidoscopic patterns swirl behind his eyelids. He tries to prop himself up, but his body won’t cooperate.  
  
  
"Don't turn your back on an enemy. Isn't that like rule #1?" He hears Buzz Cut taunting him. "And they said he'd be hard to take down!" His voice is distorted, like the bad reception on Jason’s old TV set.  
  
  
Jason blinks over and over, trying to clear the fog in his head. He watches the scene unfold in stuttering flashes. Buzz Cut twirls his knife and saunters over to the group of pedestrians.

  
"Run!" Jason yells, or tries to. His voice won’t properly project. It’s like being stuck in a dream, trying to scream, but only managing to produce a flimsy whisper. Jason grabs onto the rack behind him and hauls his body up. His feet slip on wine and bits of broken glass. The floor tilts ominously under him.  
  
  
His vision is fluttering—dark around the edges—but he can hear the pleads as Buzz Cut drags a small boy out of the herd of customers.  
  
  
"Get the fuck out of here!" Jason tries again, stumbling forward. He grabs onto the closest shelf for support.

  
No one hears him. There’s a high-pitched whine drowning out everything. Buzz Cut presses the knife against the kid’s throat. Jason’s head spins wildly as he watches a dark bead of blood trail down his neck.

  
A gunshot pierces the mayhem. The thunderous bang shatters the fog in Jason's skull. The world goes dark. He blinks, and it’s back again. Blood creeps across the floor—a growing puddle of it, thick and red.

  
The blonde woman shrieks.

  
"What?" Jason mouths. His head throbs in tune with the woman's wailing and his vision tunnels precariously. He cups his hands over his ears, his head sagging between his shoulders. 

  
The blonde woman clamps her hands hard against her face, digging little red crescents into her cheeks. "They fucking lied to us," she breathes through her mouth, a stuttering hiccup. "They fucking lied, those pieces of shit!" Her chest is heaving. She rounds on Jason and points a finger at him, "You—you fucking psycho! You fucking killed him!"

  
Jason stares at her, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. He blinks, watching her mouth move and her neck veins bulge. She’s accusing him, but he isn’t sure why. "Chill lady, I don't even have a gun—" he starts to say, but before the words can fully leave his mouth, he feels it in his hand—the cold weighted metal. His heart wrenches. It isn't possible.

  
Jason lifts the weapon to examine it, and the blonde woman—taking it as a threat—lunges for him. She wraps her hands around his neck, fitting her suffocating grip over his well-worn ring of bruises. Jason doesn’t fight it. His mind is miles away, desperately trying to piece it all together.  
  
  
So much of his time post-resurrection is spent filling in the blanks of what he lost. He’s recovered a lot of things, things he wished he hadn’t. The coffin, the darkness, the feeling of his rotting body, knitting itself together again. He remembers a lot of unpleasant things, but he doesn’t remember taking the gun with him. He doesn’t remember drawing it, and he especially doesn’t remember shooting it.

  
"Hold it right there," someone bellows. Jason hardly registers the words, but he does notice when the pressure leaves his neck. He opens his eyes. The world is a colorful smear. He blinks until it sharpens again. Red and blue lights flash against the melted snowflakes on the storefront windows. The police have arrived.

  
"What in god's name happened here?" Someone asks.

  
Jason hauls himself up and pulls his hood over his head. The police are bad news. He has a gun on him and there’s a dead kid on the floor with a bullet in his head. He’s innocent, but he’s had enough run-ins with the Gotham police to know it doesn’t matter. They won’t ask questions first. Even with the incessant drumming in his temples and the flurry of questions whirling through his mind, he’s aware enough to realize he needs to get out of here, and fast.

  
Jason glances to all sides, assessing the situation. There are only two cops inside, and they’re preoccupied with the panicked pedestrians, the blonde, and the passed out goons. Jason carefully stands. His head careens, but adrenaline keeps him on his feet. He takes a step backward. No one acknowledges him, so he takes another and another until he’s slipped through the back door.

  
The alley is thankfully deserted. The police inside must have been the first to respond. He got lucky, but judging by the far-off drone of sirens drawing ever closer, back-up will be there soon.

  
Jason leans against the brick siding. He crouches, holding his head in his hands. The only sound is his breathing, fluttering like a small bird against a wire cage. When he feels like he’s not in imminent danger of passing out, he gathers himself to run. He’s only made it a few yards when a voice calls after him.  
  
  
"Where do you think you're going?"  
  
  
The familiarity of it stops him in his tracks. Authoritative with an underlying softness. Dick.

  
Jason's heart slams against his ribs. He doesn’t know how to play this off. Should he run? Should he turn around, put on his old shit-eating grin, and act like rising from the dead is a totally commonplace thing to do? He doesn't know, how the fuck _could_ he know?

  
Jason feels a hand on his shoulder and nearly jumps out of his skin. He hadn't heard Dick approach over his own racing pulse.  
  
  
"Everything alright there, kid?"

  
Jason wrenches himself from Nightwing's grip and whips around to face him. He backs into the shadows of the alley, arms raised defensively in front of him, silently praying the darkened side street and his hood are enough to hide his face.

  
"What, cat got your tongue?" Dick asks, propping a hand on his hip. He looks so different from Bruce like that. The Bat would never relax in front of a potential criminal.

  
Jason just stands there, hands fisted in front of his chest.

  
"Look, I'm not trying to lock you away or anything, but I can't just let a suspect run off," Dick says. He crosses his arms over his chest. It’s meant to look intimidating, but all Jason can see is the guy who used to subsist on sugary cereal and antagonize Bruce with horrible puns. "You're coming with me whether you like it or not, but I'd rather not use force."

  
"Do you realize how dirty that sounds?" Jason remarks. He can't help himself. Staring down Dick, his old snark momentarily supersedes his fear. It feels good. It feels normal.

  
"So you do have a voice," Dick tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. "What do you say we head back so you can give your testimony?"

  
"Like I'm going anywhere with a dude in a bodysuit."

  
"Resist me too much longer and you'll get a nice new orange one of your own."

  
Jason takes a half step back. The asphalt cracks under his shoe. "I didn't kill that guy," he says, even though he still isn’t sure.

  
"Then you don't have anything to worry about."

  
"Courts don't exactly favor teenage guys that look like me. I've heard about what happened to those dudes in Arkansas."

  
"That was years ago, things have changed," Dick says. "Look, you're coming with me either way, but I can tell you things are going to be a lot easier if you come of your own volition."

  
Jason shakes his head almost imperceptibly and takes another step back. He bumps into a metal trash can. It clatters to the floor. "Fine. I'll go," he says, wincing at the sound.

  
Dick relaxes, nodding. "Good decision." 

  
Jason bends to pick up the trash can. "Sure," he says, wrapping his hands around each handle. He lifts the metal bin, but instead of putting it back, he flings it at Nightwing with all his strength. He doesn’t wait to see if it made contact. He sprints down the alley, bitter wind stinging his eyes. It’s stupid to run. His chances of escaping are slim to none, but he has to try. He’s never been one to give up without a fight.

  
Jason whips around a corner and spots a fire escape. He doesn’t bother to check behind him before jumping and grabbing onto the bottom rung. He heaves his body up—thankful that his arms are still strong enough to support him—and rolls onto the platform. His head spins from the exertion, but he ignores it, bounding up the steps two at a time.

  
When he makes it to the top, Jason steps back and examines the distance to the roof. Even with his arms raised, the edge of the moulding is a good three feet out of reach. His mind strays to grappling guns, but he forces the thought away. He’ll have to tackle this the old-fashioned way. The way he did things back before he got spoiled by billionaire-funded gadgets.  
  
  
He leans over the side of the railing to peer at the ground. There’s no sign of Nightwing yet, but he has no doubt he’s being pursued. The snow is falling thickly now. A thin coat of white dusts the street like a pastry. Jason shivers and sucks in a breath. He grabs the frigid railing with his bare hands and hoists a foot up, pauses to catch his bearings, then lifts the other. He stands slowly, arms spread at his sides for balance. Wind whips around him, rifling through his clothes like a cold hand.  
  
  
Jason exhales and hesitantly takes a step forward. His sneaker slips. He curses and steadies himself on the building's brick façade. Loose snow showers the ground, glittering like mist in the yellow streetlight. Jason’s heart thunders in his ears. He stares up at the sky, black and starless.

  
' _This is stupid, this is so fucking stupid_ ,' he thinks as he bends his knees. He grits his teeth and jumps with all his strength. His fingers find purchase, but just barely. Jason flails like a fish caught on a line, kicking, trying to push himself up. His arms shake, burning from the effort of supporting his body weight. The realization of his failure moves through him like a wave.  
  
  
This isn't going to work. He’s going to die. He’s going to die _again_.

  
The smell of soil floods his nose, choking him. ' _No no no_ ,' his mind races. He digs his fingernails into the concrete moulding. The hazy lights lining the street fizz out of existence, one by one. Jason slams his eyes shut and grits his teeth into his bottom lip.

  
He doesn’t feel it when hands wrap around his forearms and hoist him onto the roof. His face is numb, his breath whistling through him, never quite reaching his lungs. 

  
"Geez, kid, you trying to get yourself killed?" Dick asks. Jason doesn't respond, still too dizzy and disoriented. He feels hands traveling up his body, checking for injuries. He tries to protest, but his body won't obey. Dick pulls his hood back and starts gently probing the nasty cuts in his hairline. That, more than anything, jerks Jason back to the present.  
  
  
“N-no,” he protests. His tongue is heavy, his mouth full of marbles.

  
“What’s that?” Dick draws his hands back and huffs. "I can't see anything in this dark, hold on a sec."

  
"S'okay, I don' need—" Jason slurs, feebly trying to push himself up with his elbows.

  
Dick eases him back down. "Hold still, okay? I won’t hurt you, I just want to check for a concussion," he says, shining a light in Jason's eyes.

  
Jason tries to shield himself with his arms but it’s too late. The flashlight clatters against the ground. Dick gasps as though struck and grabs Jason’s face between his hands. “You—you can’t,” he breathes, voice like mist.

  
Jason stares back, his face an open wound. The ambient street noise disappears into the night. Dick’s fingers tremble on his cheeks, waiting for an answer, but Jason has none. "Sorry," he offers. The word cracks in two, the weight of grief ripping through him.

  
Dick doesn’t breathe. He studies Jason’s features, recommitting them to memory, or maybe trying to convince himself he’s real. “How?” He whispers, as though raising his voice will break the spell.  
  
  
“I don’t know.” Jason’s throat is tight.  
  
  
Dick shakes his head, eyebrows knit, disbelieving. He doesn’t blink. His eyes soak up the moonlight, wide and glowing. A single tear rolls down his cheek. “You’re really here.”  
  
  
Jason swallows, his skin crawling under Dick’s scrutiny.  
  
  
“Y-yeah.”  
  
  
Dick presses their foreheads together. 

  
Every atom in Jason’s body screams at him to resist, but Dick is warm. Warm in a way he’d forgotten. Like a steaming cup of hot chocolate after a winter night’s patrol, the first concentrated beam of the new spring sun. 

  
The city comes back to life around them. A cat yowls, tires squeal on frozen roads. Somewhere distant, a siren wails. Their breath is vapor mist, carried to the starless sky. When Dick pulls away again, it’s too soon.  
  
  
“C’mon,” he says, wiping his eyes with his forearm. “It’s cold. We—we should get you inside.”  
  
  
He stands and offers Jason a hand. Jason takes it, dizzy from the change in orientation.

  
Dick steadies him with a hand against his back. "God, you're so thin," he fusses, brushing Jason's blood-matted hair from his face.

  
Jason swats his hands away but doesn’t speak. There are too many things to say. The words are a tangle in his throat. 

  
"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" He manages finally.

  
"It—it’s not really important right now, Jay," Dick says, breathless. "I just, I can't believe—you're alive."

  
"Not about that," Jason amends, "the convenience store."

  
"Oh." Dick sounds surprised, like he’d already forgotten.

  
"That kid," Jason says, gesturing in the direction of the store. "I didn't mean—I don't know what—"

  
"It's okay." Dick squeezes his shoulder. "Anything you did…it was in self-defense."

  
"It was," Jason agrees, trying to convince himself.

  
"I know, Jay, of course," Dick says. He pauses before adding, "you have to go back with me."

  
"To the store? But I—"

  
"No, not to the store. To the mansion!"

  
"But what about giving my statement?"

  
"Things have changed, it's probably not a good idea to give out your identity, considering, well—"

  
"I'm dead."

  
Dick inhales sharply. "Were," he corrects firmly. “Were dead.”

  
Jason takes a step back, shaking his head. His thoughts rattle around his brain like loose change. "Either way, I'm not going there."

  
"Why not?" Dick presses.

  
"Because I don't fucking want to!"

  
"But Bruce—"

  
"Let me die and then replaced me."

  
"Jason, that's not fair."

  
"My _death_ wasn’t fair!” Jason yells. He wrenches himself from Dick’s grip. His temples pulse in time with his heartbeat. Dick doesn’t understand. He can’t. The toll of the last few years is an impenetrable barrier between them.  
  
  
Jason squares his shoulders. Resolute, even as the world tilts around him. “I don’t know—” his voice folds in half. He tries again, “I don’t why I was brought back to life. But I'm not gonna let _him_ screw up my second shot at it." 

  
Dick says nothing. Jason can’t see him through the dark, but the weight of his silent appraisal is palpable. It’s like staring into a mirror. The impulse to turn away is nearly unbearable.  
  
  
"Okay," Dick says after a long moment.

  
Jason’s energy is waning fast. His teeth chatter, but not from the cold. He looks at Dick through squinted eyes. "Okay?"

  
"I won't take you to the mansion,” Dick agrees, “but I'm staying with you. At least for tonight."

  
Jason reaches to run his fingers through his hair, then pulls his hand away with a hiss, winces. "I don't need you babysitting me, I'm fine."

  
"You're clearly not," Dick says. He takes Jason by the wrist, holds it until he looks him in the eyes. “I already lost you once, Jay. I’m not...I won’t...”

  
"Fine," Jason breathes, his lungs hollowing out. Anything to end the conversation. 

  
Dick looks as though he wants to touch his cheek again, but changes his mind at the last minute. He pulls Jason’s arm over his shoulders, instead. Jason is secretly grateful for the support. His adrenaline is waning, the pain catching up with him. There’s a jackhammer drilling into his skull. Every breath squeezes the vice around his ribs. For the first time in weeks, he wishes for sleep.

  
"Where do you live?" Dick asks before Jason has the opportunity to change his mind.

  
"Just a few blocks east from here. On Romero."

  
Dick nods. "Can you walk?"

  
"Yeah," Jason says, even though he’s not totally sure. He feels drunk. The world is a white blur, the amber streetlights a dagger in his eye.   
  
  
Dick wraps his free arm around Jason’s waist and moves them towards the roof access door. The pair travel in silence. Snow continues to fall, silent and weightless. 

  
"What are you going to tell the cops?" Jason asks, fighting to stay conscious. 

  
"I'll take care of it," Dick says simply. Jason has no reason to doubt him.

  
"God, you're alive," Dick whispers after a while. It’s reverent. Private. 

  
A shiver works its way up Jason’s spine. He thinks of the monster movie from earlier, the potential consequence of his existence. "Yeah," he agrees, unsure if the emotion behind the sentiment is one of fear, acceptance, or both. "I guess I am."

**Author's Note:**

> hey again, you made it! if you enjoyed please consider taking the time to leave a comment, it really goes a long way in helping my morale to tackle these gigantic chapters. (if you didn't enjoy, tbh, I don't need to know lol)
> 
> [tumblr](https://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/) [twitter](https://twitter.com/marvyarts)
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe!! be well!


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